


Good Death

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Caught up trying to survive in his new world, Athelstan hadn't had time to properly grieve the loss of his brothers and his life in England. The chill of autumn in the air brings with it a painful realization and he finds the pain has become too much to ignore. He tries to distance himself from his master to keep it hidden, but when Ragnar notices his slave is not himself, Athelstan has no choice but to tell him why.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11





	Good Death

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: So, historical stuff. This plot bunny came to me, and I did some poking around about Purgatory and the like. Turns out Purgatory and All Soul's Day actually didn't find their way into religious doctrine until around the thirteenth century. But the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so I wrote this anyway. Pure self-indulgence because I wanted the sad monk grieving feels. I also like the idea of Athelstan finally having to tell Ragnar point-blank that he's hurting, and it's Ragnar's fault. I think it helps humanize both of them and it needs to be said to clear the air so their relationship can continue to progress from master/slave to friends.
> 
> Anyway, hope you like it and as always, any feedback is always deeply appreciated!
> 
> ~Anges

The warmth of summer has come and gone and the wind carries on its breath the distinctive chill of autumn. Kattegat is busy preparing for the bitter cold of winter and Athelstan’s hands are not often idle. Even if Ragnar doesn’t have need of him, there is almost always something to be done and, truth be told, he is glad for the excuse to make himself scarce in his master’s hall. When he is in the company of the Northman, there’s a line of tension in his brow and the set of his shoulders seems to change ever so slightly.

Everyone sees less of him these days—he keeps to himself and prefers chores that require just one set of hands to more collaborative efforts. Few seem to notice. He’s just the Christian slave, what does it matter to them how much time he spends in their company? If he throws himself into work and then chooses to slink away to sleep rather than sit by the fire and share stories or play games with everyone else, it matters little.

Except Ragnar notices.

Since his master’s return from England, Athelstan has been caught in an endless tug of war between him and Lagertha. As much as Ragnar claims he doesn’t blame her, things have not been the same between them since she lost their child. They spend less time in each other’s company, and while there are others they might seek out, Athelstan seems to have found his way into their rotation of distractions from each other.

He feels for Lagertha and he respects Ragnar’s grief. But the endless back and forth had been taxing as summer waned. It has only become more so in autumn and Athelstan’s already frayed nerves just can’t take it.

Ragnar is not the only one who grieves.

The sensation of eyes watching him sends tension creeping up his spine. He rolls his shoulders, willing himself to relax, because he refuses to acknowledge it. Athelstan is exhausted and he doesn’t want to talk to Ragnar. Or anyone else for that matter. Yet, he hears the characteristic, heavy footsteps of his master that inspire a jolt of panic. His head shoots up and he looks around.

Where is Gyda? Surely she’ll find something for him to help her with. Or Bjorn. There must be somewhere else he can make himself useful. He stands, determined to find something quickly, but the distance between them closes before he can skitter off.

“Priest.”

Athelstan doesn’t turn around, finding something or other to suddenly become incredibly interested in. “What is it, Ragnar?” Already, his voice has an edge to it.

“I’ve not seen much of you lately.”

“There has been work to be done,” he answers tightly.

He flinches away from the hand that seeks a place on his shoulder. Ragnar frowns. “You’d stopped doing that.”

It’s true, Athelstan had grown more comfortable with his role in their lives, settling in as something of a companion to them. Today, he is too raw, and yet he doesn’t have it in him to argue. “I’m sorry.” He steels himself, but Ragnar makes no move to touch him again. Whatever response he was looking for, that doesn’t appear to have been it.

“You look tired. Why don’t you come inside?”

“I can’t. I have to…” He gestures vaguely around him. Honestly, he isn’t even sure what he’s doing anymore. Just that it must be more important than his master’s need for company. What about Arne? Or Torstein? Floki’s usually lurking somewhere. Any of them must be more interesting company than Athelstan.

And yet Ragnar doesn’t relent. “Leave it. There are others who can see to it.” He’s at least generous enough to humor Athelstan and pretend that he’d been engaged in something worthwhile. “You’ll be of no use to anyone if you run yourself into the ground.”

Athelstan closes his eyes for a moment. “Alright.” Finally, he turns to face his master and tries to smile, if only to fend off the concern in the Northman’s eyes. He doesn’t want Ragnar’s concern—it will only make him even more overbearing than he already is. Perceptive as he often is, Ragnar seems entirely incapable of understanding that sometimes his company simply isn’t wanted.

He plods along after his master in silence and obeys the unspoken command to sit beside him in the hall.

“You’ve not spoken of your God for some time,” he prods.

“You’ve already heard all the stories I have to tell,” Athelstan counters.

“You’re being difficult.”

Athelstan’s lip curls and his eyes narrow. Still, he says nothing.

“You’ve never minded my curiosity before.”

“Ragnar, please. I can’t. Not today.”

“You’ve not been yourself lately. Why is that, Priest?”

Athelstan presses fingers to his temple. He’s too tired for this. “I will begin a fast tomorrow,” he finally says. “I would ask you not to interfere.”

Ragnar tilts his head, scrutinizing his priest. “What is a fast?”

Had he not explained it before? He supposes there hadn’t yet been a need. Perhaps he also assumed his master would be familiar with the concept. In hindsight, however, the gods of the Northmen don’t see terribly interested in seeing their followers abstain from much of anything. There is so much excess in everything they do it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the notion of a fast might be foreign.

“For the next few days, I will not eat,” he explains through a heavy sigh. He can already see the argument on his master’s face.

“Why would you do something like that?” Athelstan purses his lips. “What do you have to gain from weakening yourself like that?”

“I have to,” he insists. “It is only a few days. I will still be able to work and it won’t do any harm.” Maybe it was stupid to have said anything. If he’d just kept his mouth shut and gone about his business, Ragnar might not have even noticed. But it would have been foolish to hang his hopes on that—his master is perceptive and has eyes like an eagle’s. He may not understand everything, but there is little he doesn’t at least see.

“What purpose does it serve? I’ve told you before, Priest. I don’t like those in my household to go without.”

“Yes, but at the time you were hardly concerned with my _comfort_.” If he wanted to douse the fire of Athelstan’s temper, he’d chosen a poor memory with which to do so. Ragnar wanted to use him that night, when he’d spoken those words, and the ale he offered had been just another weapon to turn against the monk. Ragnar opens his mouth the speak, but Athelstan cuts him off. “My brothers are dead, Ragnar. You may have forgotten, but I haven’t.”

“Priest—”

“This is the only way I have left to honor them,” he persists. “Don’t take this from me, too.”

Athelstan half expects Ragnar to strike him for his outburst. He can see his master’s temper rising. But, he seems to rein himself in, for now at least. He doesn’t lash out at his slave, instead he responds with curiosity. “Explain to me, Priest. We raided Lindisfarne at the end of spring. What good does choosing to starve so many months after the fact do anyone?”

The monk’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t want to say anything more on the subject, and yet while Ragnar has the privilege of saying only what he feels needs to be said, Athelstan does not. Favored though he may be above the other servants, he is still Ragnar’s slave. “It is nearly All Soul’s Day. It’s a holy day, and it is our custom to honor and remember those who have died throughout the year.”

“And you do this by fasting?”

“Not usually, no,” he admits. “But it’s all I have, and I have to do _something_.”

“What would you usually do?”

“Ragnar, please. Just leave it.” He isn’t in the mood to satisfy his master’s curiosity. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He stands to leave, but Ragnar catches his wrist.

“I don’t ask to hurt you,” he insists. “I am trying to understand.”

Slowly, he lowers himself back onto the bench beside his master. He doesn’t know how to explain, exactly. “It is difficult,” he says. Both because the tenets of his faith are so, very different from what the heathens understand and because Athelstan doesn’t like to think on what it means for his brothers. He grieves not only that they suffered and died in their mortal lives, but also for what may have become of their souls. “Will you listen without interrupting?”

His master nods.

“I’ve told you,” he begins, “about Heaven and Hell. There is also a third possibility—Purgatory. It’s a place for those who do not deserve damnation but have also not been granted their salvation. It is a place of punishment, but unlike Hell, it is not eternal in nature. The souls there suffer in penance for sins that have not yet been forgiven and once they have been cleansed, they may be welcomed into Heaven. Prayers and acts of devotion offered on behalf of the departed may reduce the severity of the penance required to achieve purification. On All Soul’s Day, it is customary to offer a special Mass for the souls of those who may yet need intercession. We would also light candles and offer additional prayers on their behalf. It is a day both for the dead and for those that have been left behind. We would talk and share memories, to celebrate and rejoice in the time we were privileged to share, as well as to share our grief over their absence.”

Ragnar gives a thoughtful nod. To his credit, he has not interrupted thus far although Athelstan can see the questions behind his eyes. “And you believe your brothers to be in this Purgatory?”

Athelstan swallows thickly. There’s anger and accusation in his expression that the Northman doesn’t understand. By all accounts, Athelstan had settled into their lives here well enough, and he’d been under the impression they had moved beyond any animosity his priest may have held over the raid. “Perhaps. I can’t hold a Mass and there are none here who will remember them, but I intend to at the very least offer my own prayers and a fast in penance on their behalf.” He shrugs his shoulders. “They were good men. But they didn’t die well.”

The light of understanding in his master’s eyes makes the monk grit his teeth. Ragnar thinks he knows what Athelstan means, but he’s quite sure his master has the entirely wrong idea. Especially when the realization gives way once more to confusion. “You told me your Christ teaches peace. So why should He hold it against them that they didn’t fight—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Athelstan cuts him off. He shakes his head. He should’ve known better than to try to explain. Their worlds are simply too different, and yet he knows Ragnar will not let him leave off there. His life—even in his grief—has become nothing more than a curiosity to amuse and intrigue his master. “In my world, a good death is expected. Either sickness, or perhaps a battle entered knowingly. It gives time to pray and offer final penance, so one might be more confident in his standing with our God.”

His throat is tight. The tears are coming and he can’t stop it. But he wants to so desperately, because his grief is his own, and he doesn’t want to share it with Ragnar—or, worse, listen to his master suddenly make things about his own grief. Ragnar has his children, and he would have Lagertha too, if he weren’t so pigheaded. And Athelstan is raw and so _utterly tired_ of Ragnar’s troubles.

He swipes at his eyes.

“We didn’t know you were coming. They couldn’t confess.” His breath catches. He bites down hard on his trembling lip, hoping the momentary physical pain will help to reel him in. “There were no funerals. And I was so scared and so selfish…” Finally, the first sob breaks loose. “I spent so much time praying for myself when I should have prayed for them…”

“Priest…”

He hates the gentleness in his master’s voice. He wants to be angry. He wants to hate him, but he makes it so difficult when he speaks like that. Everything in him rages against it, but he can’t help but allow it—lean into it, even—when Ragnar wraps an arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t want comfort, least of all from the man responsible for his grief, but in the moment he isn’t strong enough to make himself pull away.

“You’re punishing yourself.”

“No. That’s not…” But he finds he just doesn’t have the energy to argue and make Ragnar understand. And, if he’s honest with himself, maybe Ragnar isn’t entirely wrong.

“I can give you candles,” he offers. “And if you’d like to talk, I will listen.”

At that, Athelstan stiffens and pushes Ragnar’s arm away. “They meant nothing to you.” His voice is bitter, his anger rekindled.

“But they were important to you,” Ragnar counters. “And you mean something to me.”

“That’s not…” He breaks off with a scoff. “They deserved a better death. And you’re the reason…!” He stops again, drawing in a harsh, gasping breath. Everything—all the anger, all the grief, all the pain he had forced himself not to feel and all the words he’d been unable to say because he was a slave and didn’t have that luxury—has bubbled up to the surface, and now and there is no containing it again. “You cut them down like they were _nothing_!”

The angry, broken sobs have drawn the attention of others. He knows he should stop, but he can’t. He wishes Ragnar would just hit him. It might shock him into more rational thought. But of course Ragnar chooses _this moment_ to learn restraint. Athelstan almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. The one time the heathen’s ruthless violence might be of use, he decides to stay his hand.

“I didn’t know you were still holding onto this.”

“Of course you didn’t. Why would you?” Here it comes. He shouldn’t say it, but the words just keep coming as if his tongue has grown a mind of its own. “I’m just a tool to you. I’m hands to work. Or someone to entertain your children, or who you come to when no one else is available to listen. You look at me, but you don’t see a _person_. No one does.”

He is just the Christian slave. That’s all. They humor him sometimes, but only because he has become Ragnar’s favorite. No different than a favorite dog or horse, valued just the same as livestock.

“At first, perhaps,” Ragnar admits. “But then I came to know you.”

Athelstan doesn’t openly contradict his master, but the curl of his lip makes it clear he doesn’t believe it.

Ragnar glances around the hall and then guides Athelstan to his feet. “Come. We’ll find some candles. You’ve been working yourself too hard, anyway. Take the time you need to pray, there are enough other hands to see to the chores, and I’ll not interfere.”

“Thank you.”

“For what it’s worth, priest, I have thought you to be many things. But selfish was never one of them.”

Athelstan doesn’t answer.

Settled in his room, Athelstan kneels to pray for his brothers and to grieve his losses. He fasts and keeps to himself, and true to his word Ragnar leaves him in peace. It’s exhausting and he fears the weight of finally processing what’s been taken from him might crush him. He sleeps little. His knees ache from kneeling and his eyes are red and raw. Once he begins to weep, he thinks he may never stop. Truth be told, he scarcely even notices the hunger. But, awful though it may be, it’s also cathartic, as if a wound left to fester for far too long has finally been lanced.

Somewhere along the way, he finds it in him to pray also for Ragnar and for his lost son as well.

At the end of his fast, he joins Ragnar and his family at the table for breakfast. His master gives his shoulder a squeeze and Athelstan offers the smile that had been absent from his face for far too long. It’s subdued, but that much is to be expected—he will need time to recover. Neither of them speak of what had transpired, and Athelstan thinks it’s for the best. For now, anyway.

It’s still too fresh and too painful, but perhaps one day he might find it in his heart to take Ragnar up on his offer and tell him about the lives of his brothers and the companionship they’d once shared. It would be nice for someone else to remember them, even if only through stories, and perhaps Ragnar is not quite the same man he had been those many months ago when he’d first condemned them to Purgatory. He hasn’t yet earned the right to know Athelstan’s brothers, but the monk hopes that some day he will. 


End file.
